


atlas has a sister

by orphan_account



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Alcohol, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Drinking to Cope, Gen, Golden Age (Narnia), Light Angst, One Shot, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Love, Susan-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 07:43:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19389598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: rulers should be magnificent. and gentle. and just. and valiant. but crowns are heavy. and children are only children.peter and susan bear it so the others don't have to. still, even their shoulders crack.





	atlas has a sister

**Author's Note:**

> forgive me for inconsistencies with canon. it has been a long while since i last read the books.

Cair Paravel trembled as Susan slammed the door behind her. The floor beneath her feet shook as she marched across the room to her vanity, sitting down in a huff. She looked at herself in the mirror, staring at the angry tears beginning to prick at her eyes. She hurriedly wiped them away. 

The radiant sun had set hours ago. Now, Cair Paravel, and Susan’s bedchamber, were lit only in the low light of candles and lanterns. It gave a warm and welcoming glow to the halls of the castle. One that Queen Susan usually embraced. But the evening’s events had shaken her to her core, leaving her enraged at even the air itself. 

A frown etched into her skin, she took off her jewelry, throwing her earrings down on the tabletop. Her twitching fingers ran through her long hair, destroying the complicated braids that decorated her head. She couldn’t be bothered to care about the loss. 

A shuddering breath escaped her as she stood. She rushed for the pitcher of wine that sat high on a table across her chamber. Though she was barely able to hold the chalice still, she poured herself a cup. She swallowed it all, letting the wine slide down her throat and into her belly. Her nose scrunched up at the bitter taste. Then, she poured herself another cup.

One of Susan’s handmaids hesitantly pushed open the door, letting in the bright light from the hall. The Queen must have looked deranged; her hair hung down like a curtain over her face. Her lips were stained red with the alcoholic drink. 

The handmaid looked at the Queen, head tilted with concern. 

“Bring me more wine,” Susan said, plopping down on her bed. The handmaid curtsied and scampered from the room. 

Susan brought her knees up on the bed, folding them under her. Bringing the chalice close to her chest, she leaned against the bedpost. She let it support her weight as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her disheveled hair did nothing to hide the despair on her face. She’d only spent four years in Narnia, but she felt as if she’d aged a lifetime. She wouldn’t wish a crown upon her worst enemy’s head. 

A soft knocked clacked hollowly against her door. She did not answer. The visitor didn’t wait for a response, either.  _ Must be my killer brother, then _ , she thought.  _ A servant wouldn’t be so rude. _ Her suspicions were confirmed when she heard Peter’s voice let out a quiet, “Su?”

She refused to look at him. In her mind, there was still a sword in his hand and blood spattered on his chin. She kept her gaze on her own face in the mirror. She heard him sigh as he stepped toward her. He sat on her bed. She could feel him staring at her.

She sipped at the wine, wishing Peter away. After a moment, the handmaid entered again, carrying a fresh pitcher. The girl jumped a bit at the sight of Peter in Susan’s chamber. She bowed her head to the King. Susan grimaced and held out her chalice. The handmaid turned away from Peter, taking the cup to refill it. Just as the wine began to flow from the pitcher to the cup, Peter spoke. 

“I think my sister has had enough,” he said, tone soft with the handmaid. The girl stilled. Her eyes were wide and her body was frozen like a deer. 

Susan whipped her head to Peter. She glared daggers at him. “I’ll be the one to decide that,” she said, voice sharp as a blade. The girl did not move an inch. 

Susan turned to her maid, eyes insistent. In a shaky voice, just loud enough to be heard, she said, “Forgive me, my King, but I serve Her Grace.” the girl continued to pour until the chalice was full to the brim. She handed it back to Susan and set the pitcher down on the high table. With one last curtsy to each monarch, she fled from the room. 

Susan almost wished the girl would have stayed. Then, at least, she wouldn’t have to be alone with her brother. She stood, traipsing over to her vanity. She could feel Peter’s eyes on her back, but she refused to meet his gaze. She sat, setting the chalice down on the tabletop with a thud. Voice thick with resentment, she said, “At least someone still listens to me.” 

She knew exactly what she was doing. Her words would cut him and she knew it. He came here to make amends, but Susan didn’t want that. She wanted to make him angry. She wanted his ears to go red and his fists to tighten. She wanted to make him scream spitfire and acid at her until his voice was raw. She craved to fight with him and yell at him and make him hurt until all that was left between them was hatred. At least then, she would feel something other than grief and guilt for the man he had killed. 

He took the bait. “I  _ do _ listen to you.”

She looked at him in the mirror, hands wrapping around the cup. “Yeah?” she said, looking to pick a fight. “Then why do you still have blood on your chin?”

He said nothing and reached for his face. He picked off the spot of dried blood with his thumbnail. 

She tore her eyes away. Looking at him was too hard now. After what he’d done, she had trouble seeing her brother. She only saw the person he’d become. She screwed her eyes shut. “You’re a killer,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even. “You killed a man.”

Peter didn’t even deny it. He embraced it. “I’ve killed many men.” He paused, standing. She felt his hand rest against her shoulder. She flinched, but let it remain. He continued. “So have you. Or have you forgotten?”

She opened her eyes again, brushing his hand off of her. His touch stung. “That,” she said, bitterness boiling to the surface. “Was war.” She turned to him, staring up into his eyes. “What  _ you _ did, was an execution.”

He sighed, walking away from her. Her eyes followed his movements in the mirror as he paced the length of her chamber. “Fine,” he conceded. “It was an execution.” Peter’s voice cracked. Susan glanced at him. He shook his head and regained his composure. “But he broke the law. And I am the King.”

Susan downed the last of her wine. “Yes, you are the King,” she admitted, rising to her feet. She walked over to the pitcher and poured herself yet another cup of wine. “And it is by that fact, that your actions become despicable. You— and only you, Peter— could have saved his life. You could have pardoned him. And, yet, you chose to murder him.” Her skirts swayed as she turned to face her brother. 

He was staring her down. She held his eyes. She would not allow him to intimidate her. “He was a deserter,” Peter said, voice deathly serious. “He abandoned his post. He disobeyed direct orders from the Crown.”

“Yes, but he had a family,” Susan argued. “He didn’t want to die on the battlefield. He wanted to be with his family.”

Peter laughed dryly. “Would you have me send all our soldiers home? And let the White Witch and all her servants take over the country?” He scoffed at the idea. Shaking his head, he turned to her. Brow furrowed, he said, “A crime is a crime, no matter the motive. What kind of king would I be if I let criminals off without punishment?”

“A merciful one.” Her voice was low as she sipped her wine. 

Peter ran a hand through his hair. “Merciful?” he laughed. “No! Weak.” he said, “The people would never take me seriously. They’d look at me as a craven who concedes at one word from his little sister.”

He spat the words at her like he was too good to even have them in his mouth. She pressed her lips to the cool metal of her chalice. There was a time when he called her ‘little sister’ with an entirely different tone. When he’d mess up her hair and smile at her. Her heart panged in her chest. He was a different man now, she supposed. 

When she said nothing, he took that as leave to continue. “Su,” he breathed, trying to catch her eye. “You’ve let compassion cloud your judgment.” He stepped toward her. She held the chalice in front of her abdomen, wanting a barrier between them. “You, of all people, I expected to be with me on this.” She looked anywhere but his face, turning her chin up and away from him. “Do you want me to appear weak? Risk our power and claim to the throne?” he asked, rhetorically. “The people will not follow a king who cannot hold his own. You  _ must _ understand this.”

Susan placed the chalice down on the table beside her. She looked Peter in the eye. “I do,” she said, sighing. “Truly, I do. I understand the logic of it.” He frowned at her, sadness in his eyes. He looked much older than his seventeen years. He took her hand in his, thumbing over the back of her hand. She didn’t pull away. “But,” she said, “We said that we’d rule  _ together _ , you and I, at least until Edmund and Lucy come of age.”

He nodded, tucking a strand of her hair back behind her ear. “I remember.”

“So,” she continued, “You must listen to me when I say that sometimes, mercy is not weakness. Sometimes, mercy is mercy. And weakness is weakness.”

He closed his eyes and cast his gaze downward. He bit his lip. In a hushed voice, he admitted, “Maybe you’re right.” He pressed his lips together. 

“I—,” She sighed. “You should have taken my opinion into consideration. But. you didn’t. And now a man is dead.” She nodded her head to herself. “And I agree,” she said. “Our power must be consolidated.” She grabbed his jaw, “But talk to me before you act. I cannot help you if you do not.” 

He nodded again. She leaned her forehead against his and breathed with him. Silently, she wished for a time when things were easier. When they were children and there were no crowns upon their heads. No lives of soldiers and deserters and traitors to discuss. No countries to rule. She remembered that time. She knew he did too. England had faded from Edmund and Lucy’s minds, but Susan and Peter remembered. 

_ Perhaps, that is why it’s so hard for us,  _ Susan thought. _ It’s more difficult to be a fair monarch when you can remember a time when you didn’t have to be. _ Her pain was only exacerbated by the fact the no one outside herself would ever understand it. No one but Peter.  __

“It’s late,” she heard him say, finally. She nodded. “We should go to bed.” 

“Edmund and Lucy?” she asked, instinctively. She’d grown used to watching out for them. They were children still. She ignored the gnawing notion that she was still a child too. 

“In bed,” Peter said. “As we should be.” She nodded again. Peter pressed a kiss to her forehead and bid her goodnight. She could barely hear him as he left the room. She collapsed against her bed, body limp. She wrapped the blankets around herself and melted into the lace and cotton.

She let her eyes fall shut. She was full of anger and sadness and grief and hope and longing. No amount of sleep would let those feelings fade. So, instead of fighting, she embraced them. Letting them wrap around her body and pull her into unconsciousness. 


End file.
